


Fuck Freud

by fakemountains



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, really poorly written dom sub but its there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 06:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19739995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakemountains/pseuds/fakemountains
Summary: “Freudian psychology is stupid and you’re even more stupid for subscribing to it.”“Freud was the progenitor of psychoanalysis-““Probably the most annoying thing any armchair psychologist does.”





	Fuck Freud

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so,,, bad at writing female doms so I apologize for this. I really tried.

Ian tried so hard to assert himself. A toxic mix of arrogance and self-loathing, he tried to be smooth while fumbling over himself. It was endearing, in a way, and just like he was a messy dichotomy, you were one too-hating him and wanting him all the same.

There were times you’d watch him in class, drunkenly rambling on about mental health in a way that was almost insulting to the people who lived with it, and thought that his mouth could do so many better things if he’d just shut up. Today was one of those days, hotter than usual, your legs sticking together beneath your sundress. He thought of you in his lap, straddling him in his office. You thought of his head between sticky thighs.

Neither of you were ones to get what you wanted often. 

And yet, somehow, here you were. It was the usual, playful teasing, a confrontation in his office that you always hoped would lead to more. As you walked in, he popped the cork on a wine bottle, and you stood before his desk with your arms crossed.

“Freudian psychology is stupid and you’re even more stupid for subscribing to it.”

“Freud was the progenitor of psychoanalysis-“

“Probably the most annoying thing any armchair psychologist does.”

It always got under his skin when you implied he was less than credible, even though he would admit as much among friends. 

“I’m no armchair psychologist,” he peers over his glasses at you, “do you have nothing better to do than question my reputability?”

You clicked your tongue.

“Nah.”

He stood up from behind his desk, circling around to lean against the front of it, trying to appear casual as he crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring you. 

“As much as I enjoy these almost daily meetings,” he eyes your exposed legs for emphasis, “your insults are a bit tiring.”

“Maybe if you had earned your title I wouldn’t harass you as much.”

He huffs, glaring at you.

“This is a childish way to flirt.”

You scoff. 

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Flirting with you? Please.”

“This is how young adolescents usually do it-throwing petty insults in an attempt to seem uninterested,” the way you seemed to pout now wasn’t far from childish, “goes hand in hand with your daddy issues.”

“Daddy issues? There’s that weak arm chair psychology again.”

He watches you, eyebrows raised, and honestly you wanna slap that cocky look off his face.   
You go for gentler measures, instead grabbing his tie, pulling him down till his lips meet yours. Oh, you can feel him grin against your lips, but you bite his in turn, an attempt to stifle any gloating that may come up later. 

“See? Daddy issues.”

“I’d hardly see you as a replacement for said daddy.”

You wounded him again, and it was clear. 

“Besides, you’re the one constantly seeking my approval,” you pull him away from the desk, and he follows easily, obediently. You kiss him roughly once more before placing a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to his knees. You sit before him on the couch and he looks at you with wide brown eyes, a look that goes straight through you.

“Earn it.”

Duncan licks his lips, almost stunned at the turn of events, and honestly, you are too, to a degree. You were sure that when you had kissed him he would have pushed you away, mocked you, been disgusted with you. And you weren’t usually the one in control like this, but you figured it was the only way to get him to look up at you through those dark lashes like he was.

After what felt like way too painfully long, his hand finds its way to your knee, sending a jolt through you that, if you weren’t trying to stay in control, may have made you actually jump. His hand was soft, warm-no doubt from the wine he’d probably been working on all day-only calloused where a pen might sit in his hand. It warmed you like whiskey, and your thighs shifted, parted only slightly.

“May I-“ he looks at you, nervously tapping his fingers on your skin, “may I go down on you?”

God, you didn't want to seem eager, desperate, and you did want him to beg some more, because it did sound so pretty on that deep, accented voice. But you’d be merciful, if only for your own sake. 

After licking your lips, you granted him permission, and it seemed he had to stop himself from almost literally diving in.

The shift of the thin cotton dress over your thighs, his hands, long fingers working their way up alongside the fabric to pull your underwear down and over your legs with the kind of ease that only comes with desperation. He carelessly, unceremoniously tosses the bunched up fabric to the side, like he doesn’t want to see the dampness there, or maybe he wants the shock of seeing it glistening between your legs. If that’s the case, he gets it as you ease your knees apart, almost grinning at the way he hisses through his teeth at the sight. 

He’s not perfect, and you doubt he’s had much practice, but his enthusiasm makes up for it in spades. At the first taste he grips your hips, yanks you closer with a groan, his tongue flat as it runs over swollen flesh. You bite your lip at the sight, at the feel of his nose bumping against your clit for just a moment on the upstroke. 

He gives a more pressured, concentrated swipe of his tongue and your jaw falls slack with praise for him. 

“Good boy.” His nails dig into your skin.

With each properly timed pass of the tongue, each little kiss, pressing of the teeth you rewarded him-fingers in his hair, arch of the back, bitten back moan. You both tried to stay quiet, knew anyone passing could hear, but as he focused on that bundle of nerves, as his hand left your hip only to slip one, two fingers into you, it grew increasingly difficult.

“You’re so good,” he arches his fingers, finds that spot inside of you with surprising ease, “so, so good, Ian.” He groans at the use of his first name, sucks on your clit and you have to slap your hand over your mouth to silence yourself.

“Don’t stop,” it comes out as more of a plea for someone who’s supposed to be in charge.

Your hips rock against his mouth, your hands grasp at anything, dark hair, the couch cushions. Each pass of his tongue leaves your bones buzzing and melting all the same. The buildup is long, torturous, but he revels in the way your breathing grows more ragged, the way your hips stutter, thighs tremble around him.

Like a crash, it’s violent, a sob escaping as you seize around him, body pitching forward over him. He doesn’t stop, works you through it, though he can’t help but laugh a bit at the intensity of it-not cruelly, just surprised. He pulls away when you seem to liquefy beneath him, all gasping breaths and an almost stunned smile. Dark eyes hold your gaze as he licks you off his fingers.

Without catching your breath you look at him, smile, and say-

“Freud’s still a dumb bitch.”

**Author's Note:**

> Duncan the whole show- "Spare-spare coochie ma'am?"


End file.
